


Every Artist Needs Their Muse

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky is Steve's aesthetic, Drabble, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve looked at Bucky he saw a work of art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Artist Needs Their Muse

**Author's Note:**

> “When love is at the base of something, it is a masterpiece.”  
> ― Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free

When Steve looked at Bucky he saw a work of art.

Steve was an artist, and although he would never (could never) admit it, Bucky was his greatest muse. Steve could spend hours looking at him; studying the slope of his cheekbones or the curve of his smile but, no amount of practice would ever give Steve the talent to do Bucky justice.

Steve tried everything, but chiaroscuro would ever capture the hooded darkness of Bucky’s eyes. He searched everywhere but he never found the perfect shade of pink to match the color of Bucky’s flushed skin.

Bucky’s eyes which were hot as melted silver looked flat and grey when translated into paper. Yet, Steve never tired. He kept practicing how to sketch the curve of Bucky’s eyelashes, he kept trying to find the perfect shade of blue to match the marks Steve left on Bucky’s skin. He erased shadows and added light. he traced each and every one of Bucky’s ribs.

Nothing ever lived up to the original. The way Bucky’s skin heated up when Steve placed his hands on his hip. The sounds Bucky made as he took what Steve gave him. The way Bucky looked, groggy and tousled when he woke up in the mornings.

Steve was a good artist, according to Bucky he was the best, but he would never capture the smugness of Bucky’s grin. He would never find colors vibrant enough with which to paint the brightness of Bucky’s laugh. There would never be enough time to perfectly draw every one of Bucky’s stray hairs and no matter how much he practiced he would never be able to add just the right amount of shadow to imitate Bucky’s stubble in the late afternoon. Steve doubted he would ever draw hands elegant enough to pass for Bucky’s, he wouldn’t ever be able to draw the movement of Bucky bringing a cigarette to his lips. He couldn’t possibly capture the graceful billowing of smoke as Bucky exhaled.

No image of Bucky would ever be as perfect as Bucky himself: Bucky, drinking bitter black coffee and scrunching up his nose at the taste. The wrinkles by Bucky’s eyes when he smiled. Bucky combing his hair every morning and slapping aftershave on his cheeks. There would be no way to capture the dangerous glint of the blade as Bucky pressed it against his skin, letting the morning light show him the way and bounce back from the silver edge of the knife.

Steve couldn’t draw the feeling of Bucky’s large palms patting his back after an asthma attack, or those same hands bringing him over the edge. Steve couldn’t draw the feeling of safety, wholeness and home he felt when he was with Bucky.

Bucky deserved better than what Steve could give him, but Bucky never left.

If Steve was the best artist, then Bucky was a masterpiece.


End file.
